Suddenly his grip on my hand tightened, his body taut, straining his ears for another, foreign sound. Faintly I heard it too, the distant whinny of a horse being carried on the night wind. My muscles tightened in panic but Jose’s face was exultant.
“It’s Roque! He’s come to meet us!”
“Are you sure?” I gasped anxiously. “What if it’s the police?”
He shook his head. “ No. It’s Roque. Javier said he’d try and get a message through and he has.”
I didn’t have the strength to ask who Roque was. I didn’t care. By the tone of Jose’s voice it meant friends and help and an end to the horror of the blackened mountainside.
Pressed close together, supporting him as much as my exhausted body could, his heart hammering against mine, we began to inch forward one painful step at a time. Through the cover of the trees a silent figure emerged, breaking into a run as he saw us. I was vaguely aware of his exclamations of shock and thankfulness and then, bruised and weary beyond all endurance I fell to the ground and would have stayed there uncaringly if the stranger had not said gently:
“Please. Can you help me get him into the saddle?”
I swayed to my feet, exerting every ounce of strength left to help Jose. He sagged in the saddle semi-conscious, his arm hanging lifelessly, the bandages sodden with blood.
Roque mounted another horse and hoisted me up behind him. Like a rag-doll I clung blindly, my arms around his waist, hanging on precariously as we descended the mountainside, the horses picking their way slowly and carefully. Bumping and swaying I closed my eyes, succumbing to utter weariness.
It was only the sound of other voices and the bright flare of burning torches that aroused me. Dazedly I stared around me as unknown hands lifted me from the horse and strong arms carried me across a splendid courtyard. A fountain of sparkling water rained down in a delicate mist and then we were in a large hallway where glittering chandeliers dazzled my eyes, shining down onto a floor of gleaming marble. Wonderingly I looked around me as I was gently lowered into a velvet covered chair, a kaleidoscope of colour surrounding me. Silk lined walls of glowing flame, rugs of honey-pale saffron, glowing shadows flickering across dark paintings in heavy guilded frames. Vaguely surprised that delirium was so sweet I closed my eyes, drifting off into sleep.
I dreamt that I was being carried up a sweeping flight of stairs, past high arched windows of stained glass, the glimmering light shining on panes of vermilion and emerald and topaz. That gentle hands were removing my shoes, that the soft burr of women’s voices crooned above my head as my body sank into a soft bed and I was covered with crisp sheets. Then the fever eased and I slipped into deep sleep, dreaming intermittently of Jose and Miss Daventry and with somewhere, just beyond my grasp, a sickening sensation of fear and dread.
Chapter Ten
I lay back against the soft pillows, gazing uncomprehendingly at the slatted shutters through which the sunlight fell in broad golden bars. I turned my head, searching for familiarity. My room at the inn had been plain and austere. The only colour the coral-red of the wild roses that Carmen gathered daily, brilliant and defiant against the simple walls of stark white. Here, the walls were covered with a tracery of delicate carving in rich dark wood. Gorgeous wall hangings hung luxuriously, the dancing arrows of sunlight bathing them a soft gold. The bed I lay in was huge and grandiose, a four poster with fragile lace canopy and silk sashed drapes. Above me gilded angels and cherubs frolicked and danced and through the half open shutters I glimpsed a tiny balcony crammed with pots of scarlet geraniums and troughs of sweet-smelling bouganvillea.
I swung my feet off the bed and ran to the window. Below me the morning light shone brilliantly down onto a courtyard surrounded by walls of pale ochre. Tendrils of hanging creepers with star shaped leaves trailed the sun-baked walls and wisteria blossom hung in violet blue clusters, clinging to the swirls and loops of wrought iron window balconies, cascading over shaded archways. Through them I glimpsed horses and the shine of bridles and polished harnesses.
A fountain spouted a stream of water from the open mouth of a bronzed fish, the sun glistening through the fine spray, misting the myriad droplets into a thousand sparkling diadems.
I turned, searching for Maria’s dress and sandals. There was no sign of them. Instead, a freshly pressed blouse and cotton skirt lay across the foot of the bed, and neatly below them stood a pair of soft leather shoes. I dressed quickly, stepping out into the high ceilinged passageway beyond. The floor was a mosaic of tiles, cool and smooth. I wandered past the windows, jewelled with stained glass, set deep in embrasures of solid stone, until I came to the magnificent staircase of my dream. I ran down the sweep of shallow steps and through the colonnaded hall into the pattern of sun and shadow.
As I stood there confused and hesitant, a man strode from the direction of the stables. On seeing me he paused fractionally beneath the archway and then smiled, strolling across to me, his arms held wide in a welcoming embrace.
“Good morning. I hope you feel better after your sleep?”
“Yes thank you … but who.…”
“I am Romero. Jose’s brother.”
He had the same devastating good looks, but there was something softer about the eyes, something less sensual about the mouth. He was dressed casually in riding breeches and high, gleaming black leather boots. A friendly smile creased the lines of his face.
“You must be hungry,” he said, taking my arm. “ Come with me. Breakfast is prepared for you, an English breakfast, would you believe. I’ve ordered Jose to stay in bed, but how long he stays there is anyone’s guess.”
He led the way through dim corridors and sudden patches of light as the sun’s rays spilt through an open window. Then into a room lined with shimmering sienna silk, seating me at the head of a polished mahogany table that would have seated sixteen. A flushed young girl, her hair curling damply round her cheeks from the heat of the kitchen, brought in crisp rolls still warm from the oven, and a plate of bacon and eggs and gently fried tomatoes. The French windows were thrown open, the air sweet with the tang of lemon trees and wisteria.
Romero seated himself at my side, pouring out dark, strong coffee, handing me salt and pepper and a fine linen serviette.
“Despite the unfortunate circumstances, Alison. Welcome to Lindaraja.”
“Thank you,” I said, and then, trying not to sound rude. “ When do I leave?”
He smiled. “Soon, unfortunately. Lindaraja has already been searched by the police, but there is no telling when they will come again.” He leaned his head against the back of the ebony carved chair. “ When you have finished perhaps you would like to see Jose. He has been asking for you.”
I drank my coffee, grateful for its warmth. We had undergone two journeys of ordeal together. The flight from the beach and the climb to Lindaraja. The third and last journey, the most dangerous, the escape into France, was still to come. It wasn‘t a comforting thought.
When I had finished, Romero led me once again up the graceful curve of stairs and into the shadowed corridor. Through the open windows doves cooed soothingly and I could hear the gentle spray of water from the fountain. Romero paused before a door of intricately carved wood, hinged and studded with bronze. His hand gripped the heavy handle and pushed. Surprisingly, I found I was suddenly nervous and shy as I walked in behind him.
Chapter Eleven
He was sat up in a giant four poster bed, clean and freshly shaved. His hair still a knot of tangled curls and his amber eyes bright and refreshed, alight with good humour.
“I see you made it in one piece.”
“Only just,” I said dryly.
His hand reached for mine, gripping it hard for a brief second, then he said to Romero: “Any news of Garmendia?”
Romero shook his head. “No, but it’s not surprising. The Bishop of Bilbao himself has been threatened with arrest, and a state of emergency has been declared for the whole province. The authorities have admitted that one
hundred and ninety-eight people have been arrested in the last forty-eight hours. Six priests have been arrested. One of them Father Calzada.”
Jose’s eyes darkened. “There is a lot to be done and not much time to do it in.”
“Don’t worry,” Romero said as Jose made to get out of bed. “Rest. You’ll need it. I’ll see to everything.”
Jose’s eyes met mine again for a brief tantalising second, and then I followed Romero out of the room.
He said: “ It would be a good idea if you got acquainted with the horse you will be riding. You do ride, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ve never attempted anything like this before.
He smiled. “ Solitaire is a good horse and Roque will look after you.”
With sinking heart I wandered out into the radiance of the courtyard, shielding my eyes from the brilliance of the sun’s glare, letting my fingers trail among the cool, feathery-green fronds of the plants that clung around the fountain, the spray falling over my face and shoulders in a cooling mist.
Roque’s shadow fell across the white stone and I looked up, noticing with something of a shock that he was not as young as I had at first thought. Tall and aesthetically thin, still dressed in riding clothes, he said almost shyly, “Romero would like me to introduce you to the horse you are to ride tonight.”
I followed him beneath the brief dimness of the archway and into the noise and bustle and smell of the stables. The horses leaned sleek heads over their stalls, pale manes against chestnut and copper. A young boy with rosy cheeks led a glistening chestnut horse towards us.
“Solitaire,” Roque said, slipping the saddle into place. The horse raised its head to mine and it was love at first sight. He was heaven to ride, and out on the gentle slopes of the mountain, the air blowing fresh from the summit, I forgot my worries and for a short time was joyously happy. Roque broke in on my happiness.
“You are a good horsewoman. You will manage.”
He helped me down from the saddle, slipping Solitaire’s bridle off and leading him to a box of hay. With a last look at Solitaire, nose deep, foraging for the food, I made my way back into the house.
Jose was waiting for me. Dressed and hands on hips he stood in the marbled hallway. I stopped only yards away from him, our eyes locking.
“Well, well,” he said appraisingly. “Quite the accomplished horsewoman.”
“I never said I couldn’t ride.”
His eyebrows raised expressively above gleaming eyes. “They say some people are born to it.”
“And?”
“You are,” he said, with a slight nod of the head, the tight black curls rippling. “I can tell.”
We stared at each other, still not moving, eyes never wavering. Then the laughter in the amber eyes died, the flecks of gold like motes in a sunbeam, intensified, desired. With one swift stride he was against me, by body pinned firmly to his, his heart hammering wildly against mine, as the dark head bent and demanding lips met my own.
From a far distance came the singing of a lark, and my arms were still round him, pulling him to me with the same fierce intensity in which he was holding me. It was a long, long kiss, and when at last he raised his head he still held me imprisoned in the circle of his arms, and I still stayed, a willing prisoner, seeking no release.
“Well,” he said, the blaze of desire hot in his eyes, still holding me transfixed. “ Who would have thought it?”
I could feel his heart thudding against my own, my own desire flaring like the sudden upsurge of joy that had been mine with Solitaire out on the wild mountainside.
“Not me,” I said, my breath hurting like that of someone who has run a long, long way. Someone who, in only seconds has travelled inumerable light years. “Not me,” and I lifted my mouth to his again, my lips bruised and crushed beneath the pressure of his.
It was Romero who disturbed us. How long he had been there I didn’t know. At the same moment we became aware of his presence and turned, still locked together, to face Romero’s questioning eyes. Slowly Jose released me.
“You have mapped the route?” he asked.
“Yes, but we need to go over it together carefully. Very, very carefully. Even then it is only going to work if the God’s are on our side.”
Jose’s eyes met mine. “They’re on our side,” he said, and I blushed and turned, leaving them with their maps and notes, slipping light-headedly along to my room.
The blinding light of the sun struck hotly through the windows and I closed the shutters, standing in the dimness, my blouse clinging to my body like a second skin, wet and clammy with sweat. I peeled it off, stretching my arms high above my head, seeing my darkened reflection in the mirror against the wall. I dropped the blouse onto the bed, padding into the adjoining bathroom. Slowly I turned the taps, dropping my skirt and underclothes to the floor, the smell, the taste of Jose, lingering around me.
Then I froze, staring blindly at the gushing water, my whole body ice-cold.
“Oh God,” I whispered weakly, fumbling for the taps, halting the rush of water, staring unseeingly down into the quivering depths. Then I stumbled back into the bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. In front of me, specks of dust fluttered in the bars of slanting light that seeped through the closed shutters. The doves were back, cooing and fluttering. The faint whinny of a horse was carried lightly in the still air. The joy and perfection, the exultant happiness had been knifed, murdered to death by someone I had not given a thought to over the last twenty-four hours. Someone I had forgotten entirely. Who could take away from me all the brightness and brilliance that I had believed to be mine. There was, quite simply, Jose’s fiance. There was Carmen. It was Carmen he loved. Carmen he was going to marry.
My head ached as I tried to think clearly. I stared unseeingly at my naked reflection in the shadowed mirror. What was it Miss Daventry had said on that first, fateful morning? I had asked her if any local men had been on board the boat trying to make for the safety of Miguelou’s harbour and she had said: “Four. Among them Luis and Jose Villada. Jose is Carmen’s fiance.”
If the tears pricked my eyes before they fell I didn’t feel them. Happiness had filled me, surrounding me like intoxicating music. For a brief fragment of time I had believed myself at the gates of paradise. Now the nectar and ambrosia, the musk and civet, had turned sour. I saw it for what it had been. For the past three days we had faced death together three times. His kiss had been the culmination, the natural reaction of a man with Jose’s nature. It had been a kiss … only that. Not love. Simply a kiss, given lightly and no doubt expecting to be taken lightly.
Unless … hope flickered, struggling for life. Unless in these past three days he had fallen in love with me. Was prepared to relinquish Carmen? And if so, then surely he would tell me. Put his feelings into words. Leave me in no doubt of his love for me. And if he didn’t? a small voice asked.
Then if he didn’t, my joy was killed. I could see only a future without love, or at least the love I wanted. I sat bleakly, wondering how such a craving could be overcome, wondering how I should ever be able to get used to living without him.
Numbly I resumed filling up the bath. I lay there, the hot water doing little to comfort my turmoiled emotions but easing my aching body. There were more skirts and blouses hanging over a chair and as I slipped my arms into a freshly laundered blouse, I wondered cynically if they were, in fact, Carmen’s.
Cries of greeting and hurrying feet reverberated through the rooms. I stopped, hand in mid-air, straining to catch the sound of the visitor’s voice. If it was Carmen’s.…
A door closed and silence fell. I ran quickly along the corridor and down the wide sweep of stairs. I had to be put out of my misery quickly. I had to know who the visitor was. I headed straight for the room from which muffled voices could be heard and with only a brief knock, and without waiting to be asked to enter, opened the door. My sigh of relief must have been audible. The visitor was Javier. His jeans were frayed and caked w
ith dirt, his tee-shirt splitting wide at the shoulder, his plimsolls were scruffed and his hands and face looked as if they hadn’t seen water for a week. He was the nicest, dearest sight in all the world. He flung his arms wide, swinging me round.
“You look wonderful! I shall hold you to your promise when we reach Bayonne. Think how those peasants will stare! The French think only they have beautiful women, but we shall show them, Alison. By all the saints we shall show them! We shall stroll down the Rue Marengo and drink pernod and they will admire you and envy me! And then we shall.…”
Jose tapped him on the shoulder. “Leave your arrangements for Bayonne until we reach Bayonne. What do you think of this?”
Javier shrugged, eloquently regretful, and turned to the map spread out on the scrolled carved table. My eyes sought Jose’s, but he, too, had turned. I crushed my disappointment. I was being unreasonable. The flight into France was uppermost in Jose’s mind. Surely that was natural enough.
The three dark heads pored over the rolled out map, fingers pointing, Romero tracing a faint pencil line, his brow furrowed in thought.
“That has to be it,” Jose said at last. “And it has to be now.”
“Now?” I asked, surprised into speech. “ But I thought we were leaving it till nightfall?”
“The police are already on their way here. Javier was in Metebbe when he heard Lindaraja was to be searched again. With even more thoroughness. If he hadn’t been so near to us we would have been caught like rats in a trap. As it is we only have minutes left.”
Tapestry of Fear Page 6